You Take Pills, Thinking They Cure Sadness
by eshajouri
Summary: You eventually get tired of your perfect life and come to me; I can provide you all the hate and misery you want. All the hate and misery you need.


**A/N: **You should listen to _KnifeCalle_ by Jeffree Star before/while/after reading this. I also recommend Marilyn Manson's _The Beautiful People_.

**Disclaimer:** I obviously don't own KnifeCalle or South Park (otherwise the show would consist of really fucked up kids doing really fucked up things. Oh, wait).

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><p><strong>You Take Pills, Thinking They Cure Sadness<strong>

_it all just hits so close to home,  
><em>_we all got friends but we stand alone,  
><em>_and you're on your own from a broken home,  
><em>_you keep the truth inside and it stays unknown._

Whining to your friends is the easiest escape, but pity and warm words won't change the fact your parents' marriage is a ridiculous facade. No, how your whole life is a ridiculous facade of happiness and perfection. The star quarterback who has good grades and a beautiful girlfriend? Who has a lot of friends, the most popular guy in a school of a insignificant mountain town? The role model, the perfect son with a perfect life. The perfect friend, the perfect partner, the perfect everything – you're nothing but a dumb kid whose prank backfired. You're nothing but a clown telling a joke; you're all made up with a perpetual smile painted on your face. You're a corpse buried six feet inside the illusions you put up to hide all the ugly things you only show me.

When you break down, you come to me.

You knock on my door when you know my parents aren't home. Good thing our moms get along so well, right? How they complain about our dads but never do shit to make things better; how they say they are going to Denver to watch plays or go shopping, but are actually trying to get some young boys into their panties to escape their pathetic lives. Or how our dads are on such good terms, going fishing and getting home stinking of hookers and cheap beer. How we all have dinner together while our sisters go out to get wasted and end up in a bathtub covered in vomit in God knows where. They all get along so well, don't they. So you know when they are out trying to pretend they are happy with their families and brag to other people about how perfect their sons are, how we never get in trouble and have an average life with good friends who are always by our sides.

But where is your Jew friend when you get shit-faced in my basement? Where is McCormick when you're doing coke on my coffee table? Where is your adorable girlfriend when I'm fucking your ass senselessly?

You look adorable like this, by the way. You say you hate this, you accuse me of raping you, but you move your hips like a bitch in heat; you come so many times and your cock is too fucking sensitive that if I just touch it a few times, just tease the head, you come again. You even cry, but you don't tell me to stop; you don't resist, you just loathe the whole act, you just hate yourself too much to try and actually struggle. You let me fuck you as much as I want, even if you can barely stand the next day. You surrender and keep crushing your own pride and dignity, again and again and again until you can mourn and cry yourself to sleep. You need a reason to be ashamed of yourself, to bite your lip until it bleeds, to keep your self-destructive habits. And I'm the reason you need. I give you drugs, I smoke with you, I drink with you, I violate you in all the ways you want me to. I'm just an excuse while you pretend to be the victim of another sadist and a broken home. You simply don't want to be happy. You love feeling sad, you love self-loathing, you love killing yourself slowly, intoxicating yourself – you can't live without it anymore.

"You're—you're fucking sick," you bite the pillow and sob uncontrollably and I didn't even get started.

"I'm just giving you what you want," I chuckle. "_You_ are sick, Marsh."

You don't try to defend yourself. You know it's true, you hate it, and you love hating it so much.

I keep still, and you turn your head to me with an inquiring gaze, eyes swollen and red. It's only the third time today, I want to tell you and laugh at you, because you're the only person that can be more pathetic than me.

"C'mon," I give you that smile that you hate so much. "Beg."

You hide your face, but I turn you around and you let out a sound from your throat. I love your voice. It gives away your true self, it's filled with hatred and anger and need.

I move slowly, pulling out and pulling in, moving my hips so fucking slow that makes my own dick hurt. I've got a lot of self-control, you know.

"Beg," I command. "Tell me what you want."

You turn your face to the side, but I grab your jaw and my tongue makes its way to your mouth. Your kisses are shy at first; they deny what you want so bad, but it won't take long until they get violent and aggressive. You can't hide the lust and spite for your own life that hides in your eyes.

"Tell me."

"Fuck me," you finally give in, that defeated expression on your face. All the sadness you want, the depression you love, I drill everything in your heart. "Fuck me already, just fuck me, Craig," I can see the tears forming on the corner of your eyes. "Make me come so many times I won't even think straight," you let them flow. "Fuck me hard," you cry, wrapping your arms around my neck and kissing me with all you've got.

See?

You're humiliated. You're hating yourself right now, loathing your life and existence as I ravish you mercilessly. You cry and hate everything like you never allow yourself to do. You sob and your heart beats frantically with anger and hatred and it's fucking _beautiful_.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_," you cry, closing your fingers tight on the sheets. "There, right there," you beg with a hoarse voice, choking on your breath while I move my hips in disagreement with yours. We form this fucked up scene until your body can't take it anymore and you come. Your whole body shakes and you squeeze your eyes close, praying it all isn't true, hoping that your life is actually perfect and the cancer killing all the system is me. You blame me for making you come, for making your body sensitive, but – I want to laugh at that, really – you're still hard.

"I hate you," you sob and squirm. "I fucking hate you, Craig."

"No," I lean forward, kissing you. You don't even hesitate, kissing me back with your arms tightly around my neck. "You hate yourself so much you come to the only person as miserable as you."

You don't answer.

You know I'm right, because that's the other way around, too.


End file.
